


Between the Pipes

by sorrylatenew



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Sex, First Time, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Multiple Orgasms, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prostate Orgasm, Scent Marking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-04-21 10:28:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14282940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sorrylatenew/pseuds/sorrylatenew
Summary: Jonny’s never spent a heat with another guy, alpha or no. Never had an honest-to-god-dick-attached-knot inside him. Never been with someone he used to daydream about lifting his ass up for, even on suppressants.





	Between the Pipes

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to allthebros for being the best beta in the world. I continue to not know what I'd do without ya. To fourfreedoms who always provides with her encouraging words. <3333 And to hatrickane for running the prostate fest, which I did not meet the deadline for, but would've never started or finished this fic without.

Jonny’s nervous.

He leans forward with palms braced on the bathroom sink, quirks the sharp edge of a smile at himself.

He is. He’s nervous.

Heat makes him jumpy—overcompensation for the creeping lull that seeps into his blood when it starts—but that’s not what this is.

He knows how to deal with that skittish prickle in his muscles just fine. Knows how to handle the weakness in his knees and the honey glaze of his head.

What this is, is Kaner.

He takes a deep, steadying breath, pushes himself away from the fogged over mirror, and reaches out for a towel to ruffle through his hair.

One half hour. One half hour is what Kaner said. Picking up food. Jonny's gonna pace the whole fucking time.

There's not much he can do about the slick, even fresh out of the shower—not with heat on him like a threat, close and thrumming and _ready._ So he slips into a loose pair of sweats and treads lightly around the house—mindless in the kitchen clearing countertops, carefully bending in the bathroom to get rid of his dirty clothes, and he still ends up slumped on the toilet, elbows to his knees, too wet to stand because he can’t stop thinking about Kaner’s fucking knot.

Kaner’s knot that he’s gonna get to see in all its glory. The warm, spiced smell along Kaner’s neck and collarbones. Kaner’s deep voice all orgasm-soft in Jonny’s ear, _My ties last a long time, Tazer. We’re gonna have to plan for it._

His dick’s nice even without a heatmate to fuck, thick and heavy, his knot impressive enough that Jonny’s already felt the little bump of it during sex, has been pushed to busting nut at the nudging suggestion of being tied on that thing.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispers, and cups a hand down over his aching balls, gathers them towards himself in a protective hold.

He’s too into this. He already knows he’s too into this. He hasn’t spent a heat with another person in—probably over a year now, only twice since Amber, and he misses it like a sawed-off limb when he takes care of himself, but god the fucking hassle. The finding time away from the game, hoping his suppressants let up quick enough to do the deed. The swiping through endless Fever profiles for one night stands who _might_ know what they’re doing. The embarrassing, tired confirmations that, yes, he really does get wet enough to need towels and fucking puppy pads laid out on the mattress.

He goes a little flushed thinking of them, already arranged as neatly as possible in his bedroom, covered up in the hopes they won’t make much noise. It’s not that he doesn’t know his girlfriends were always into it—one had tried a weird, enthusiastic kind of scissoring on him more than once, slicked them both up hot together—but he’s never not felt awkward about it with someone new, the passing comments of _I wouldn’t have expected_ as tired as anything else.

And this is Kaner. This is Kaner and it feels tenfold.

Jonny’s never spent a heat with another guy, alpha or no. Never had an honest-to-god-dick-attached-knot inside him. Never been with someone he used to daydream about lifting his ass up for, even on suppressants.

He wants it to be good.

A few months now of fucking around and he’s pretty sure it will be—Kaner takes cock better than bottom alphas on pornhub, which...Jonny hadn’t known he was into at all. He gives head like a maniac and spent an ill-advised straight twenty minutes eating Jonny out on their last trip to Dallas.

But heat’s different. It’s different when it’s with someone you like. The idea of washing Kaner’s claim off him when they’re done—Kaner washing off Jonny’s—he already hates it. He already hates it and he’s never even had it.

“Jon?”

Jonny startles, snaps his head towards the partly open door and sits up straight. "Kaner?"

There's a jangle of keys landing on the bar, a rustle of plastic bags, then an easy, "No, it's your mom.”

Shit.

Jonny’s heart kicks into high gear, plummets somewhere down into the pit of his stomach, then shoots up to lodge itself in his throat.

Shit, _shit._ He's still too fucking wet.

He takes a wild look around the bathroom, as though his toothpaste might shout out the answer to slipping off the toilet and going to eat like a normal fucking thirty-year-old man.

“One minute!” he yells, and puts his palms to his face, rubs over his eyes and tries to get a quick handle on himself, get his head on straight—a mostly unhelpful bunch of toilet paper for the mess between his legs, one foot propped on the seat; a splash of cold water at the sides of his neck and over his chest.

A bead of it slides its way down to rest at the edge of his belly button, slips just inside, and he realizes he’s not wearing a t-shirt. A glance up to look at himself in the mirror again and his reflection is a blunt reminder that he should be—nipples pulled obvious and tight, his shoulders tensed, bare skin all heated over like an invitation—which, yes, but—

“Jonny,” Kaner calls, drawing the name out long, a smile in his tone. “What’re you doing?”

Ruining these fucking sweatpants, that’s what he’s doing.

Jonny lets out a laugh, short and incredulous, and puts a weak arm to the wall, holds himself there to breathe.

There’s really nothing else for it—he’ll have to get a washcloth, try to situate it between his asscheeks, figure out some way to get rid of it before Kaner can see him naked. Then he can just run and grab a shirt and—

“Your food’s gonna be cold,” Kaner says, voice suddenly much nearer than it had been from the kitchen. “If I have to listen to you bitch about it, I’m dumping these noodles on your—”

Head, Jonny imagines, is what he was going to say, but he cuts off, and they meet each other's gaze through the gap in the open door, lock onto each other like they weren't expecting to run into anyone in the house at all.

Kaner's eyes go wide, very incredibly blue in the light from Jonny's bedroom window, and then very abruptly dark. "Holy shit," he says, voice pitched low. "Have you already dropped?" And the smell of him hits all at once, slams into Jonny like a solid nine iron of Patrick Kane directly to the skull.

He blinks at the image Kaner makes in front of him, blinks against the warmth that floods his vision, and inhales another rich lungful almost unwillingly, a gulp through mouth and nose to get it far up under his rib cage—another, then another, until his elbow gives and he slumps back, lets out a whispered, “Fuck."

Alright. This is different.

He swallows, plants his feet to keep them solid against the rush in his head, the abrupt sensation that it's turned into a bowling ball and a balloon at once. It tips all the way forward, then jerks back up, and god, what—where is—

"Jonny," Kaner chokes, strained tight, and Jonny puts a sluggish arm out to slap the door the rest of the way open, stands ready for it when Kaner's on him next second, nose to the space beneath Jonny's jaw, and _jesus fuck_ he smells good—sex and sun and ice, close and familiar.

It coats Jonny’s throat fast, sticks all the way down and settles heavy and deep in his guts, hot from inside out. It layers on top of his skin, pricks his nipples into bunched, hurting little points, worse than before. Squeezes at Jonny’s heart as sweet as at fifteen, wetting hard for Becca Martin’s fingers.

This is _not_ different. This is fucking virgin shit—whiffs of his scented teammates at Shattuck, Dan asking how tight alpha pussy is, and he slams into a blush at the thought, the memory of being that eager, but opens himself up for it, pulls Kaner into him, hands in his hair, stomach full of helium.

"Shit," Kaner whispers, mouth open over Jonny's adam's apple. "Shit, you are so fucking wet. I can smell it."

Jonny parts his legs for the press of Kaner's hips, clutches an arm around his shoulders. "Don’t," he gasps, clenched tight and useless against the waves of heat in his belly. "I’ll drop right here.” And he will—feels tipped that much further as Kaner rubs himself all over, rocks into him, scenting Jonny before they’ve even started.

He has to pull Jonny down to get his face into his hair, no fucks given on the awkward angle. "I can't—god," he says, fist gripped into the longer strands on top. "I'm already popping knot—I'm already—fuck—”

Jonny mashes a hand over Kaner's mouth, legs like water underneath him, and Kaner slides his fingers into a hold at the back of Jonny’s neck, pins him hard where they stand with the full thrust of his weight.

It makes Jonny want to slip down onto the unforgiving tile, wrestle his pants off and give his ass up on his knees, shift a hand between his legs to press his dick back and show Kaner all of how he’s ready for him.

He has to fight to keep his eyes open against the want that rolls off Kaner in a smothering wave, overwhelming, pushes at Kaner's chest to get him to move them from beside the shower.

He does it, but it is not pretty getting to the bed, even from just across the room. They make more of a mess of it trying to strip each other out of their clothes than if they just sat back and waited. But wait seems impossible—hilarious, now, that they were gonna have dinner, ridiculous. 

The pads crunch under Jonny's back when he tips down over the mattress, but Kaner doesn't seem to notice, ignores them completely in favor of pulling Jonny out of his sweats from the waistband, his own half-discarded shirt caught around his neck like a bulky, misshapen scarf.

"Oh my god," he says when he's got Jonny spread out bare underneath him. "Oh, god." And Jonny's stomach squirms with arousal so heightened it's almost unpleasant.

This is the part he can't stand—this in-between. The hurting, built up ache inside, the tension in his cock, the peak of all that right before drop, too much and not enough.

It's hard to tell how wet he is like this, but he can feel a cooling strip of it on his calf where his pants dragged it down his leg, and he knows it's a lot. It's always a lot, but he knows it's _a lot,_ and Kaner's face says as much, his slack, open-mouthed stare as he puts hands to Jonny's thighs and splits him, the heavy movement of his chest as he inhales.

Watching him look stretches Jonny thin, sends his cock bobbing hard against his stomach, and he reaches down to trap it there, find some kind of relief. "Kaner, I can't—" he gasps, blushed to his chest, panting. "Knot me—you—"

There’s need in the words, thready and desperate, and something in Kaner shifts at the sound. His face softens and his mouth sets into a serious line as he lifts hands to get his shirt the rest of the way off, climbs up onto his knees between the wide V of Jonny's legs, the smell of him dipped into sharp, pointed focus.

He’s so much to look at, his shoulders and arms lit pale gold from the open curtains, lips red and full. Jonny can see the the outline of him in his underwear, his dick pressed snug against the front, and he's still not entirely prepared for it when Kaner reaches inside and takes it out like it’s sore and tender, fingers light on the underside to keep it from bouncing, one hand swept down the length to hold himself firm behind the knot, that flared pink swell, almost fully popped even without Jonny having tipped over yet.

"Fuck," Jonny breathes, legs parted wider. "Holy fuck." And he does feel the wet—feels it puddle around the weight of his movement, the warm cling, and he can't fucking stand this, cannot stand Kaner this close to him and not touching, not getting him open and dragged on his cock, fitted on his knot.

He tries to sit up, pushes himself on his arms, but doesn’t make it very far before Kaner meets him there with his mouth, catches him up in a kiss that knocks him backwards, almost hurts, but this is it. This is exactly it. The taste he wants, the overpowering scent of Kaner wanting him back, the ice in it lifted into something biting and hard, cold so bad it burns.

"This is ridiculous," Kaner breathes into him, awkward as he kisses again and tries shimmying out of his underwear without moving away. "This is fucking crazy. I haven't—since—"

Jonny arches up into him, into the scent and the warmth, tries stopping the cry in the back of his throat and only manages to turn it into a cracked whine.

It is ridiculous. Something beyond suppressant buildup, something outside the realm of sitting on months of self-imposed restriction. He can’t _think_ outside of the fact that he’s close, so fucking close this fucking fast.

“Scent me,” he says, eyebrows drawn together, legs locked up around Kaner’s thighs. “I’m almost—Patrick—”

But Kaner never stopped. He keeps on where he’s laid himself out over Jonny’s body, tongue in Jonny's mouth and then face in his neck, picking up that close heat smell that won’t go away sometimes even after a shower. He gets a thigh between Jonny’s legs to scent him there too, careful of his knot in slotting them together, slow and smooth in the movement.

“You’re gonna cream up so good,” he says into Jonny’s ear, coating himself in Jonny’s slick, and the pained sincerity of it hits Jonny just right, digs nails into the meat of him and pulls close and close and close and _there._ God. There. That humid bloom of full heat. The lightheaded, lightning feeling of hot blood and liquid insides. The floating pleasure at being able to reach drop on his alpha.

He goes utterly loose to the bed, limp and blissed out, senseless except for the sensation of the switch, then, just as fast, the entirety of Kaner comes at him like an assault. The full smell of him, the full warmth of him, the full range of how out of his head he is on Jonny’s heat.

“Peeks,” Jonny says over the thin, strangled groans from Kaner’s throat. “Peeks—god, fuck me.”

It's barely out of his mouth, a swift arrangement of limbs, a fast, quiet breath, and Kaner's _in_ him like a shock. No resistance, just a plunge into the glossed up fever of Jonny’s body.

He lets loose an immediate, mean streak of thrusts, deep and uneven, knot bumped up half inside Jonny’s ass before Jonny constricts on him tight and involuntary, jams Kaner right up against his prostate and fucking comes.

He lets out a yelp at the rapid spurt of his cock over his stomach, squeezes Kaner to him in a backbreaking grip, then groans when Kaner’s scent goes thick in the air, telling.

His knot pulses against the rim of Jonny's asshole, and it swims into sudden focus how fucking _hot_ his dick is inside, how different it feels like that, the bright, blinding pressure of it slotted in good.

Jonny closes his eyes, takes great gasping breaths and drifts on it, stupid and reeling when he slurs, “Did you nut?” before the words can even come out right, even though he knows Kaner did, smells it.

“I didn’t even—" Kaner answers, held perfectly still, voice high and almost amused. "I didn’t mean to.”

Jonny tilts his head back and laughs breathlessly, a little absurdly, and pulls Kaner into a kiss, tries to clench his ass on him but can't get any tighter now, latched hard as possible until a tie.

"This is gonna be really long, or really short," he says, heart full, and Kaner laughs too, then. Smiles one of his smiles that are hard to look at, all dimples and tongue.

"Really long," he whispers, and lifts himself up, tugs to bring Jonny with him into his lap.

It sinks his cock in _deep,_ gets his knot all close again, and they groan into each other's space, brush open-mouthed lips and the barest tips of their noses.

"My whole ass feels like—prostate," Jonny says like it's baffling, his weight settling heavy on Kaner's cock, one arm curled around his neck. "Like you're just—everywhere in here—fuck—"

"Jesus, Jonny," Kaner whispers, and falls onto his back without warning, bounces his hips up and jars out a little surge of wet from Jonny's dick. "I'm gonna make you come a hundred times."

It feels entirely possible—like he could come five-hundred times on this cock, thick as Jonny's favorite dildo but throbbing with want, fat and urgent and alive inside him.

Jonny's head tips down like the bowling ball it was earlier, hangs on his neck while he tries to steady himself with hands to Kaner's pecs. "A hundred times, bud?" he says, because he has to, and Kaner smiles again, answers,

"Don't test me," and smooths his fingers into the sticking glide of mess in his lap, all the silky, warm wet from Jonny's ass, a pretty picture when it clings from Kaner's belly to where he takes Jonny's dick in a loose grasp.

The touch of it scratches at the edge of Jonny's need, friction against his heat, and he gives a little rock forward and down, circles his ass in a slow lap around the perimeter of Kaner's hips.

"That's it," Kaner whispers, eyes and cheeks bright, all of his attention honed in on Jonny's face. "I want you to get both."

Jonny repeats the circle, lets out a shaky moan and frowns. "What—" he says, but isn't sure he overly cares with Kaner's dick so hot, a perfect tapping rub where he needs it, Kaner's thumb working his foreskin in a gentle slide over and under and over and under.

"I want to cream your prostate—" Kaner says, pauses to suck in a little hiss through his teeth. "Wanna cream your prostate and get your dick at the same time."

"Fucking christ, Kaner," Jonny groans, body drawing up tense, a quiet chance to brace before his heat roars burning into him, licks up his insides like a second fucking drop. Kaner's scent picks up, all blazing sunlight under him and around, a plastic bag of it over the face, and Jonny has no idea how he doesn't tip sideways onto the mattress.

"You're gonna go so tight," he hears like it's far off, a reedy whine. "God, you're gonna go so tight, babe." Then there are two careful hands on Jonny's dick, one a smooth glide up and down the shaft of him, the other just firm enough at the head, glazing over him in tight, sure circuits of Kaner's palm. 

He raises his knees behind Jonny's back, presses his feet down for something to lift up against, then lifts up—sends a dull, thudding few thrusts up inside Jonny’s ass, knot snug to his hole.

“Tell me if one gets too much,” he says, eyes gone a little hazy. “I’ll stop. Tell me when you’re close in both.”

Jonny nods, but Kaner must smell the rise and fall of his arousal, god—he can’t even imagine what he must smell like. Taffy-thick heat; overwhelmed, bare need; a fond, aching heart.

He doesn’t know if he’s ever been so fond of anyone in his life, helpless against this fucking idiot, and he knows right there his claim isn’t gonna let him off easy. Kaner’s gonna have to take a whole fucking bath in neutralizer.

Jonny groans at the thought, lets out a weak sob of a laugh and leans back to put his hands to the bed, crunches the pads underneath them to give himself a better angle to work down on.

“Fuck, you’re so hot,” Kaner breathes, precise in his rhythm—a strike to Jonny’s prostate, a fluid circle of his palm, a strike, then his palm, strike, then palm, strike, palm, the only break in it a split second pause for more wet.

Jonny rides him and lets him work, mouth open to the ceiling, eyebrows creased, the buildup gathering like a sharp, electric pulse between his legs, brightness somewhere in the base of his brain.

“Oh,” he says, fists clenched in sticky towels. “Oh, jesus—Kaner—keep—Patrick, keep—” He can feel Kaner’s knot getting hotter, the desperate little throb of it while Kaner fucks up into him, and he never wants to have a heat without this again, never wants anything without this again.

“Ah!” Kaner lets out, sudden and surprised, hips lifted and caught, strained under Jonny’s weight. “I’m gonna have to tie on this—I’m gonna have to tie—baby—” He bares his clenched teeth, pumps his hand fast over Jonny's dick, and the sweep of orgasm starts there. It centers in Jonny's balls, wrings at him, then triggers something deeper, something wet and full, a _gush_ of feeling where Kaner's got his cock up inside, so pointed and acute his eyes go teary along the rims.

He doesn't know how he ends up on his back, but that's where he is when Kaner knots him, when his body lets him in all the way to the root and then goes tight tight tight around the nut Kaner empties into him, one that makes Kaner flop useless over Jonny's chest, then another that blows his scent muddy and rich and sends Jonny into another of his own.

He can't fucking breathe, makes an ugly, drowning noise and squeezes a leg around Kaner's hips, toes curled tight enough to cramp.

This is being knotted. This is the thing he's wanted. Jesus christ, he's so fucking gay.

It makes him laugh, makes him throw his head back despite the emptiness in his lungs so it comes out a choked, sputtering gasp more than anything, and when he can breathe again he flushes so deep his eyes prick back up.

Kaner smells like _him._ He smells like he's rolled around in Jonny for an entire week, dunked in scent Jonny wouldn't know how to describe except to say it's his own. He picks up Kaner's own scent stronger, but he knows the fact that he can smell himself at all means there won't be any hiding the claim when Kaner's out of this bed.

They both lay quiet, Jonny slowly letting his leg fall to the side where it squelches into his own cooling slick, makes them both hiss when the movement jostles the tie.

"Fuck," Kaner whispers, barely a breath against Jonny's neck.

"Yeah," Jonny agrees, soft himself, sore everywhere here in this temporary satiation.

Kaner lifts his head up, leans forward for Jonny's mouth. He barely ever flushes, but he looks pink and lazy and satisfied, faintly gleaming with sweat. "You okay?"

Jonny nods automatically, but he is. Feels like he does after winning, after having to fight for it.

"Good," Kaner says. "I can complain about how it's your fault I'm stuck in probably a seven hour heat without food." He smiles, presses forward for another kiss.

"You came looking, hotshot," Jonny counters, hands smoothing up Kaner's back, and Kaner gives him a hum like he's not sure of that, but kisses yet again, eases his tongue past Jonny's lips, hot and pliable when Jonny meets it.

His knot stays right where it is, Jonny's ass clamped around it while they touch each other, somehow spreading scent even further.

Kaner strokes his thumbs over Jonny's nipples, leans down to kiss the center of his chest. "You smell like me," he whispers, this more quietly than anything else, and Jonny goes very still, eyes caught on the wild tangle of Kaner's curls in his face.

"Oh, yeah?" he says, just as quietly, breathing at a measured pace to get his heart to stop flipping over.

"Yeah," Kaner says, and lifts up to look at him, the pink in his face gone pinker. "Pretty bad."

"Mm." Jonny swallows, lifts his knuckles in a silly, nonsensical nudge against Kaner's jaw. "Sounds messy."

"Pretty messy," Kaner agrees, and Jonny draws him in closer, hums a moan when Kaner's knot tugs at his rim, pulses, and makes Kaner shiver.

He slides their faces together, puts his mouth to Kaner's ear and whispers, "You too," warm all over, nervous and not.

"Mm," Kaner says, a mocking little note. "Thought so." And he laughs when Jonny scoffs, laughs easy and soft, drags his lips back around to Jonny's own.


End file.
